Alouette
by Luinramwen
Summary: 1765. England moving in wasn't actually that big of a change, except no matter what he did he wasn't France. Canada wishes he could be completely all right with that. What happened after Quebec. Part of the "One Day In..." series.


**Alouette (One Day in Quebec. Later.)**  
Genre: family  
Rating: PG-13  
Characters: Canada, England; flashback!France  
Warnings: Colonial history, a little blood, Canada being kinda emo. Are those really warnings?  
Part: 4/?  
Disclaimer: Do not own. Characters only bear resemblance to living counterparts or other people through extreme coincidence. Characters' views do not represent my own.  
Summary: England moving in wasn't actually that big of a change, except no matter what he did he wasn't France. Canada wished he could be completely all right with that.  
Notes: Pretty self-explanatory. I wasn't done with this yet... I kind of feel that it's pretty central to why Canada is still divided between French and English, so I wanted to devote some time to it. I have attempted to write Canada actually losing France, but I haven't found a satisfactory way to do so yet - so for now you'll have to make do with a skip in the timeline. It's history though, so it's not like there's any spoilers, right? Right?

-

_July 1765_

The sun beat down bright and warm even through the branches. Green light filtered over the boy as he stood with feet braced on a sturdy bough, stretching up through the fluttering leaves for the reddening apples he could glimpse just a little bit beyond normal reach. The sides were smooth under his touch as he twisted the first one free, and dropped it into the basket hanging on the branch he was clinging to at chest height. There weren't a lot ripe yet, but there should be enough for the two of them to share.

It smelled like growing, here among the leaves, a faint hint of wild sweet blossom and the sour honey of crisp apples. Canada inhaled deeply, and was happy.

_"Alouette, gentille Alouette  
Alouette je te plumerai  
Je te plumerai la tête  
Je te plumerai la tête  
Et la tête, et la tête  
Alouette, Alouette  
O-o-o-o-oh  
Alouette, gentille Alouette  
Alouette je te plumerai -"_

"What in God's name are you _singing_?" Quite suddenly, England was in the doorway, leaning there, brows furrowed, and Canada squeaked, clapped a hand over his mouth.

"I - I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking -!" he said, feeling his face heat up. That was right. What _was_ he doing, singing in French? What was he doing reminding himself of someone who'd left him to his fate, and what was he doing reminding England of someone he hated? Canada fidgeted nervously with the edge of the basket as he looked down at his shoes, planted firmly on the branch. Scuffed. France would never have allowed him to get away with that.

_Clothes help make the man. Take care of them, and they will take care of you, my dear._

Tears prickled at his eyes, unexpectedly, and he couldn't tell if they were angry or sad.

"Does it mean what I think it does?" England demanded, leaving the doorway to cross to the tree, hands on his hips as he looked upwards at Canada.

"What... what do you think it means?" Canada asked, unsure about how he should answer that. England tilted his head to one side, then shook his head and - _almost_ smiled, as though to say, _well, never mind._

"It's kind of catchy," England said, eyes not quite readable. "Be careful you don't fall." He went back into the house.

Canada looked at the closed door for a long time, afterwards. Then he pulled himself up another branch, pressing himself against the trunk for the widest and strongest support underfoot, and grinned, seeing the apples in plain view, within reach.

_"Alouette, gentille Alouette  
Alouette je te plumerai  
Je te plumerai les yeux -"_

"Don't fall," repeated the little white bear at the foot of the tree, black eyes solemn.

"Don't be silly, Kumamoto," Canada said, and leaned forward, pushing himself up on tiptoes. "I won't."

Apples, heavy in the basket. There were more than he'd thought, and Canada decided it was time to stop picking before he had trouble getting them back to the ground and overbalanced. He pressed one hand against the trunk and sat down on the branch, bark rough against his breeches.

The tree was thick and gnarled, sturdy and old. Canada remembered planting it. Large graceful hand steadying his as the seed fell against his palm, a little black drop of magic drowned in dark damp soil. How it had grown! Swift and spindly at first, stronger each year, the patterns of the bark as familiar to him as the lines on the palms of his own hands. Apples, year after year, growing more and more plentiful as the roots sank ever deeper into the ground. How old was it now?

From up here, Canada could see into the window of England's study. He was sitting at his desk, pen in one hand, the heel of the other pressed into his eye. Papers were scattered across the desk's surface like so much snow. He curled an arm around the trunk of the tree, temple against the wood, and watched England rub his eyes, take a deep, visible breath, and then settle back down to work, face grim. For a moment, Canada found himself wishing he knew a song in English. Maybe he should take the fruit in, and go see if England wanted any tea, and maybe England would relax, and smile a little.

He'd smiled a lot, in the first year after France had gone back across the ocean. Now... now, not so much. It wasn't his fault, he knew. Part of it was America, who was growing in leaps and bounds, and turning, as England said with a wrinkled nose, into a positive teenager. Canada always felt a little twinge of discontent in his stomach whenever England talked about America. If _he_ were a teenager, he wouldn't make England sigh and frown over papers when he should be out enjoying the last warm days of summer. He'd protect England, for the times when England had protected him.

_The wetness on his hands as he pulled Canada out from behind the tree was blood, but not his own. There was a scratch on his cheek, the tip of a bayonet barely avoiding deeper damage. Canada had long ago gone numb with the screams and the crack of gunpowder, the scent of blood and death heavy on his small shoulders. He was shivering. He couldn't seem to stop._

_  
"Go," England said, bent to cup his face in both hands, eyes glittering, wild and strange. "Go, Canada, run back to the city and hide."_

_  
"I c-can't," Canada said, limbs cold, so cold. England's thumb brushed away tears, first one side, then the other, and Canada finally realized he was crying. "I c-c-can't, I - I - can't m-m-m -"_

_  
Gunfire, sharp and intrusive, quite near. England glanced back over his shoulder, pushed Canada back behind the tree, and pulled him down to the ground. "You have to," he said, earnestly, eyes almost pine-dark as they dilated. "Come on, lad, be brave. I know you can do it. Don't cry. Run like the wind."_

_  
"I c-can't __move__!" Canada's shivering was almost uncontrollable now. "England, I can't move, I'm s-s-so scared, so c-cold, I'm s-sorry -"_

_  
Canada had heard sailors swearing before, but they were not a patch on England, who'd had much longer to perfect and collect them. "Right then," England said, and rose stiffly to his feet. "If that's the way it is."_

_  
England was skinny and England was wiry and short, but he scooped Canada up all but effortlessly, and carried him deeper into the trees._

_  
"Stay here," England told him, setting him down. "Don't move. I'll come for you when we've won this last battle."_

_  
"Wh-where are you going?"_

_  
"To finish what I've started," England said, and pressed a fierce, almost possessive kiss to the top of Canada's head. Canada felt some of his muscles relax, and then England was gone._

It would be easy to be a sentinel from this height. Canada could see most of the yard from here, and with one eye on the fences and side yards, the other on the window of the study, he could see most of what was happening in his little domain. All quiet on the home front. He wasn't quite sure what he could do against a real intruder armed only with a basketful of ripening fruit, however. Not like there was such a danger. He'd expected discontent, but there was a little bit of grumbling from some of his seigneurs and the former officers, but otherwise...

Otherwise, it was business as usual. The transition from French to English control had been almost frighteningly easy. England made the rules now, but then, France had made rules too, and Canada had never had a lot of say in the matter.

The first time Canada had let slip a _Oui, Papa_, instead of _Yes, England_, he'd been horrified. England's expression had been a little strained, but he didn't say much about it until later, when England had sat him down and told him, quietly, that if he liked he could speak whatever language he wanted, if it was more comfortable for him. This was strange. America had told him once that England had made him stop speaking anything else other than English when they'd first become family, and Canada had gripped his brother's hand and reminded him of the languages they'd shared before anyone had come to this land, back when they were both tiny, barely conscious of anything other than simply being.

The first Sunday after England had moved in and thrown (most of) France's things away had been awkward too. Canada could feel the anxiety rising in him at the sound of the church bells, and finally England had held out a hand, and led him into the streets, down to the grand old Catholic church sitting near the main square, and let him go. "Go on," he'd said, roughly. "Aren't you going in?"

"But aren't you... not Catholic?" Canada had said, hesitantly. England sighed.

"The Protestant church is being built just a few streets away," England said. "This is something important to you, right? I'll meet you here on the lawn after your Mass is done."

"You're not going to... force me to be Protestant?" Canada had asked, even more hesitantly. England's cheeks had gone ruddy for a second before he looked abruptly away.

"If it's something important to you, I would have to be stupid to try to change that," he said. "Go on, shoo, or you'll interrupt the sermon."

And things had gone on in this fashion, every Sunday since. This seemed strange, too. America hadn't talked much about it - it was too much a part of who he was - but Canada had seen the way that growing up Catholic and growing up Puritan had made differences between them, Canada nervously fingering a rosary, America in sober, practical clothes, occasionally blurting Bible verses righteously without having any real idea why he felt so strongly about it. England had done that - or anyways, England's people had. He'd forced him to forget his heathen ways, and Canada had fully, apprehensively, expected that he would have to give up the rituals and sacraments taught to him by France, as well.

But he hadn't.

Life was pretty normal. The dishes were still in their same spots in the cupboards, the washbasins kept where they always were. The garden was still extensive and wild with flowers, fruit and vegetables, the familiar rows marching on unchanged. The food was different, and one of France's rooms had been transformed into a study, and there were English lessons in the evenings, and England drank tea with meals instead of wine, but the grandfather clock in the corridor ticked on, unchanged, and the light slanted in through the windows in the same way every day. Everything had changed. Nothing had changed. Sometimes Canada rounded a corner to find England in the parlour or the kitchen, and his stomach dropped, because it wasn't France, because he was still an intruder.

France, Canada had to remind himself constantly before he ended up missing him, hadn't wanted him. He was better off with someone who'd fought hard to get him, even if England was more distant than France, even if it was still strange enough to _hurt_ that France wasn't there anymore to brush his hair, and read him stories, and patiently teach him how to play the piano that stood dusty and alone in the corner of the parlour, or to daub colour on his nose while Canada watched France painting in the afternoons.

_"Alouette, gentille Alouette  
Alouette je te plumerai  
Je te plumerai le coeur..."_

No, some verses were best left unsung. Canada stood, and moved to take down the basket from the branch above, twisting his body about for a better angle as it hooked on a twig.

His foot turned sideways on the branch, and began to slip off. Canada grabbed desperately for the branch in front of him, and held on, arms shaking under his weight as he scrabbled for purchase, swinging first one leg, then the other as it slipped off as well.

"No, no, no, no, no -!"

He risked a glance down, hands sweating and starting to cramp. He'd dropped out of the tree before. But he was pretty sure the ground was farther away than usual. Canada tightened his grip, and gritted his teeth against the pain in his fingers. He could probably drop and be all right. He didn't have much choice, unless he could just get a foothold for a few seconds -

The swinging caused his fingers to slip, and he fell.

Canada landed mostly on his feet, knees bent to absorb the shock of the fall, and then went down hard, sprawled in the dirt. Stars burst in front of his eyes, and he had to swallow hard not to yell or throw up. That had definitely been a worse landing than usual. Oh - oh, that hurt, straightening his ankle out. He reached forward and lifted the injured leg with trembling fingers, straightening it out and feeling surreptitiously to see how much it throbbed when touched. There were blood smears on his stockings when he let go, and he turned his hands, curiously, to look at the palms, scratched and torn by the rough bark. They stung, it occurred to him quite suddenly.

He would have to go get cleaned up. He cast one last unhappy glance up into the tree at the basket still hanging there, and gritted his teeth. He'd have to get it later.

"Kumajawa," he said, trying to catch the attention of the sleepy-looking white bear. "Kumajawa, can you help me, please?"

"Who?' said the bear, but blinked his eyes open and lumbered to his feet, yawning enormously before moving close enough that Canada could use his back to help push himself up onto his good foot.

Whoo, that was dizzying. He gripped at his fur, and the bear waited patiently as he did so.

"Told you," the bear said. "Don't fall."

"Too late." Canada managed a wry chuckle even though it kind of hurt all over to laugh. "Come on."

_"Alouette, gentille Alouette  
Alouette je te plumerai  
Je te plumerai les ailes..."_

Together, bear and boy hobbled back to the house, and into the kitchen, where Canada knew shears and gauze were kept. The pitcher on the table was still full of water from the well from after breakfast. He peeled off his shoes and stockings, and sighed with relief at the disappearance of the painful pressure, then turned his attention to dabbing his palms clean with the water. The bear sat on the floor, and nudged his good leg with his muzzle every now and then, the way a dog might.

He barely heard the footsteps coming down the stairs.

"Canada? Did I hear you come in?"

Canada pushed away the cloth and curled his hands in on themselves, trying to hide the raw flesh there as England came in through the doorway, and stopped there. Always so awkward and distant.

"There you are. Did you find many apples?"

"Some," Canada mumbled, aware that England was glancing around the kitchen.

"Did you put them on the porch, then?"

"... No." Canada hung his head.

"In the cellar, already?"

"... No."

"Well then, what did you do with them? I was thinking of making an apple pie tomorrow morning."

"They're outside." Canada couldn't meet his eyes, obscurely ashamed. "Sorry."

"What are they doing still out there?"

"In the tree," Canada mumbled.

A pause. Canada let his thumb rub at a raw patch of skin on his index finger, staring at the floor as England crossed the kitchen to look out the window where the basket still hung on the branch. Then more footsteps, and then hands on his own, turning them over and revealing the scrapes and cuts. His ankle was starting to swell. It really hurt.

"You fell out of the tree," England said.

"Yes." Canada swallowed.

Silence again, as England gently prodded at his hands, then knelt to examine his ankle. "This doesn't look too horrid," he said. "Just a sprain, I think. You stay right there, and I'll go find something to splint this with. Keep dabbing at your hands and I'll bandage them for you."

Canada remained silent throughout the treatment, though the bandages were too rough against his palms. He let them lie flat on his lap as England knelt again to cradle his foot on his lap, and bound it steady and firm.

"Well, at least I've got some experience with home doctoring," England said, breaking the silence with a wry smile. "America, at your age, was always falling out of trees or tripping and splitting a knee open down by the creek, or tumbling down a hill, or playing with things he shouldn't. The boy never sat _still_. There, how does that feel?"

"F-fine," Canada said. "Thank... thank you."

"You could have hurt yourself worse, getting back here on your own," England said, voice sharpening a little.

"I didn't, Kumakichi helped -"

"Why didn't you call out?"

Canada bit his lip. Something twisted in his gut, making him feel strange and sick and weak.

"I would have come to help, you know. I didn't even hear you cry out. Why didn't you want help?"

"I don't want to be a burden," he blurted, and then the tears came against his will, hard and hot and fast, and oh, so much for not being a burden or an annoyance, crying was the _worst_ in front of someone like England, who had probably never cried in his life. It was being British, he thought. England was too British to cry or have any patience with someone crying, but it _hurt_ and he couldn't even pick apples without doing it wrong, and why was he still so much a child when America was strong and proud and _old_, almost a real adult, and why did he have to be so weak and young and helpless after England had taken him from France and was expecting so much more?

"I'm sorry," Canada sniffled, and England said nothing, but pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it into Canada's hands. He'd seen a lot of uncomfortable looks on England's face over the last few years, but none quite this uncomfortable. It was probably his fault too. "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry -"

"Never you mind," England said, and pushed himself back up onto his feet. "I'm going to make some tea. I think a nice hot cup will make you feel better, don't you?"

"I guess," Canada said, and tried to wipe the last of the tears away, except each one didn't seem to want to be the last. "All right."

Except for the fact that Canada needed to be carried up the stairs to bed because it was too awkward to negotiate them in a splint, the rest of the evening was quite normal. England made tea, then got down to business in the kitchen. Supper was a little less burnt than usual. Canada studied English at the table, working his way through frustrating homonyms, until the candle was half burned down, and England wrote letters to send off on the next ship to London beside him. His ankle throbbed, and he had a hard time falling asleep, even though this was his room, this was his bed, and it had been for a long, long time now.

Everything was normal. And that just didn't seem _right_.

-

Canada woke to pitch blackness, and a hand stroking his hair out of his face. He lay still, breathing deep and even, and apparently no change had been registered because he was not asked if he was awake now. The hand was warm, fingers twining with his wavy locks, and Canada wanted to lean into it, but that was probably a bad idea if the owner of the hand was only doing it because he thought Canada was deeply asleep.

"France is such a git," came England's whispered voice, and then he felt the bed shift under him as England leaned down, one hand still pressed against his cheek. His lips were warm and gentle, the kiss placed perfectly against the curve just above his eyebrow, and Canada felt something in him start to break.

France had used to do this too, when he thought Canada was asleep. He used to stroke Canada's hair, and sing softly, stories that Canada had never been sure if he was supposed to remember or not. France had sat up nights by his side, and Canada had heard the love in his voice then, not as flamboyant or suspect as it was in the daylight. He hadn't always been more trouble than he was worth.

England's voice, quiet, almost right in his ear. "He hurt you badly when he called you that, didn't he? You knew all along and now you can't forget it."

_Fingers on ivory hit a mess of wrong notes. He saw France flinch, and apologized._

_  
"Don't be silly, darling," France said, and bent over him, fitting his fingers on the keys beside his own. "Nobody plays perfectly no matter how much they practice. You've been working hard. It's only been a short while. Don't be so hard on yourself, all right, sweet? Just take it slowly, and before you know it, your fingers will remember for you. Why don't you start again, from the top?"_

_  
Ivory notes falling into the still dusty silence of the house, slow, steady, and precise, the melody hesitant but there. Days passing, the feel of cool black and white indents under small fingertips growing more and more familiar as days turned into weeks and months. Eventually, music, all the more precious for being so long in the coming. He showed France, and dropped a few notes near the beginning, but kept going, his fingers remembering where his mind failed, dancing solemn across the keys._

_  
"Lovely, Canada," France said, smiling wide, when he hit the last chord and let it fade away into silence. "I'm proud of you."_

"That git," England said again. "I wouldn't have fought to bring you home if that's all I thought of you. It was worth it, even if it's just you and me in the end. I promise. I'm going to take care of you better than he ever could or did, and we're going to show France exactly what he let get away from him. I'll make sure you're happy enough to forget that ever happened."

It had been, Canada realized, a long time since someone had spoken like that to him, and he couldn't pretend to sleep any longer. He sat up, flung himself against England's startled form, buried his face in his shoulder, inhaling his familiar scent. Tea and old books and the open ocean, and this was England, and England did not think he was a burden.

"I love you," he blurted into England's shoulder, and England's hands stilled on Canada's own shoulders, then slid around, and held him close. It was, Canada knew, only because it was dark, only because later England could deny it for both of them as nothing but a dream (because England was too British for softness and affection, no matter how many stories America told to the contrary), that these words could even be said and accepted.

England didn't answer, except with a tight squeeze and gentle hands over his hair, but that was all right, it was more than enough. He had a feeling that England also knew what it was like to be stuck loving someone who didn't care anymore, and knew better than to say it to anyone. It was a grown-up thought. He'd been having more of those, lately.

Canada smiled into his shirt, and for a time at least, his fear flew away like the ghost of a lark.

-

Notes:

I think this is the second fic in this series that I start with Canada up a tree. Clearly some part of me believes that Canada's secretly part squirrel. ... STFU, HE IS IF I SAY HE IS.

_Alouette_ is a traditional French-Canadian song, nowadays probably more commonly used to teach children the names of body parts. Translated, it's about pulling apart a lark (French colonists considered the skylark to be a game bird), running something like, "Skylark, nice skylark/Skylark, I will pluck you. I will pluck your head..." and so on and so forth. "La tete" is the head, "les ailes" means the wings, and "le coeur" is French for the heart.

Feelings were fairly mixed about the whole English-taking-over thing, in 1763. They still are, I think. Because on one hand, any position of power (officers, administrators, etc, etc) other than the clergy was basically forbidden to the French-Canadians who'd held them up until that point. Unless, of course, they wanted to turn Protestant, which meant _hell no not happening_. On the other, the English were greatly outnumbered in Canada by the French-Canadians, and couldn't do much about assimilating the French without a huge amount of trouble, so the English seemed to basically let them continue as they were.

It seems like maybe England had picked up a few lessons about parenting along the way (they do say the first child's the trial run, don't they? *is shot*), and was a little more inclined to be generous with his new colony, officially allowing the French-Canadians to keep their own civil law, language, religion, and culture with the 1774 Quebec Act. Nevertheless, oppressors are oppressors, and the French, particularly the upper class (being kicked out of their jobs and all), were hardly pleased about having to submit to the English.

In part because of this, Canada still struggles with his dual identities, and neither side can get along all the time. But much like England and France nowadays, most of the sniping happens in Parliament or meetings as opposed to on the battlefield. It seems like civil battles like this are part of what it means to be Canadian. So remember kids, next time you're bickering with someone, you're following a time-honoured tradition of the true north strong and free. *is shot again*

Yes, France is a Catholic. I know. I'm scared too. On a less facetious note, though, I find it fascinating what the RL country's majority religion(s) add to their Hetalia equivalent's characterization.

England also wanted settlers from New England to move up in large numbers to Canada, but what actually happened plays out something like this in my mind:  
_England: So, America, now that I've adopted Canada, I was thinking it would be nice if we all lived together as a family in one house. =D  
America: Fuck no, it's cold up there. Why would I want to be cold? Sorry Canada.  
England: D=  
Canada: Actually, this is all perfectly all right by me. =D  
America: Also, I kind of have this big rebelling thing that's building up ATM. Yeah. Well, you know how it goes. By the way, your precious tea? Did you know it tastes like FREEDOM when you mix it with seawater and harbour mud?  
England: D,=  
Canada: England, if he makes you sad, can I set his house on fire sometime later?  
England: ... =D  
America: D= Now that's just not awesome at all._  
(... *is dragged out and shot for a third time*)

Lastly, if anyone's unsure about how old I've been picturing Canada here, it's somewhere between eight and ten years in appearance. America is not quite as old as he is during the War of Independence, but getting close. I tried to take economic/population/political growth rates/changes into account here.

-


End file.
